


He Was Better

by TheUnforgivables



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Laurent's POV, M/M, another book scene rewrite, but this did not go in the direction I had expected, with a bonus of me taking a stab of diverging a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnforgivables/pseuds/TheUnforgivables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurent could see the tension in Damen’s shoulders as he dismounted; heard the roughness in Damen’s voice as he ordered for a party to pursue the riders. How his voice faltered as he said, “We stop here to bury the dead.”</p>
<p>And there would be plenty of dead to bury. Laurent breathed in, smoke thick in the air and uncomfortable in his lungs. He, too, slipped off his horse, his eyes trailing the loosed hound toward an outbuilding just as Damen’s did. As if summoned by the whined orders from the dog, Damen moved towards it, kicking up ash and dirt along the way. Laurent followed.</p>
<p>It bothered him, that he would always follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was Better

**Author's Note:**

> I just really, really love writing Laurent's POV, okay? I'm sorry. 
> 
> Many thanks to my platonic bae N3m3sis42/43 (whichever one she's using on Ao3 I can't even be bothered to check xD) for the time she spent editing this. Jesus. I would be lost without you. <3

Laurent frowned, reining in his horse as Damen’s came to a stop. The sun inched past the horizon, illuminating the blackened earth and still smoldering flames before them. Burnt buildings, most in tatters, littered the landscape.

Unknown riders. This village, eroded to ash with likely no survivors.

Laurent could see the tension in Damen’s shoulders as he dismounted; heard the roughness in Damen’s voice as he ordered for a party to pursue the riders. How his voice faltered as he said, “We stop here to bury the dead.”

And there would be plenty of dead to bury. Laurent breathed in, smoke thick in the air and uncomfortable in his lungs. He, too, slipped off his horse, his eyes trailing the loosed hound toward an outbuilding just as Damen’s did. As if summoned by the whined orders from the dog, Damen moved towards it, kicking up ash and dirt along the way. Laurent followed.

It bothered him, that he would always follow. When Damen’s hand rested on the door and tested it, Laurent saw the girl peek out from behind a nearby stack of firewood. “There’s nothing there,” she said, her face grim and twisting with the lie. “Don’t go inside.”

Laurent felt the presence of his men behind him and put out a hand to stop them from moving forward. Damen turned to the girl, brow furrowed and his eyes studying her, as if trying to gauge the truth of her words.

“If there’s nothing there, why not go inside?” Laurent asked, keeping his tone light while also cutting to the chase. Laurent glanced down at the ground, his eyes focusing on the unmistakable marks caused by something heavy and bloody leading to the door.

“It’s just an outbuilding,” the girl all but whined.

Laurent regarded her for a moment and did his best to soften his features. He knelt before her, bringing himself to her eye level just like Auguste used to do for him, when he was scared and young. “Look,” he said, his voice even and encouraging. He showed her his ring. “We are friends.”

“My friends are dead,” she whispered. Laurent’s stomach turned at her words, but he made sure not to show it on his face.

Without another glance at the girl, Damen ordered Laurent’s men to break the door in, and Laurent had to stifle the anger rising within him at the careless decision. The girl started for the door, and Laurent took hold of her, doing his best to keep his grip as comforting and nonthreatening as possible. He held back his grimace as the door splintered open under the barrage of shoulders.

He could barely see inside, but the trail of blood became more apparent past the door. A woman stood, her face twisted in determination as she held the broken end of a spear in her hands. Laurent could see the shadow of an old man behind her; the rest of the spear was buried inside his stomach.

The girl broke free of his grip, running towards the woman.

“My Liege,” the old man rasped, his voice thick with pain.

“Call for Paschal,” Laurent said, addressing the one soldier who hadn’t provided his shoulder under Damen’s orders. Without looking behind him, he stepped towards the woman in order to reach the man, gently directing the splintered spear away from him without any signs of concern.

The man had tried to rise to his feet, to pay Laurent the proper respects. Laurent dropped to his knees beside the man instead, tempted to provide him with a brief touch of his hand. The man said, “I couldn’t hold them off,” before he could.

“Lie back,” Laurent ordered quietly in response. “The physician comes.”

He knew it was too late. There was too much blood on the straw; the smell of it perfumed the air and singed Laurent’s delicate nose, mingling with the acrid smoke from outside. But perhaps Paschal could ease the man’s suffering; make his end come a little faster.

The old man seemed to sense Laurent’s intention, as his eyes widened, just slightly, at Laurent’s words, and a small, brief smile tugged at his lips -- one of regret that he hadn’t done enough to serve his prince. Laurent heard the rattle in the man’s voice as he spoke of his training from years -- no, _decades_ \-- ago. How he was a retainer from Marlas.

Laurent was only peripherally aware of Damen’s movements. How the other man strode from his position in the room and carefully stepped over the blood. Out of the corner of his eye, Laurent half-watched as Damen knelt before the girl in an echo of Laurent’s earlier extension of friendship. He didn’t hear the question Damen had asked, but he most certainly heard the answer, a familiar chill rolling down his spine:

“Damianos,” she said, with all the conviction her young voice could carry. “Damianos did this. He said it was his message to Kastor.”

He didn’t turn to Damen then. Instead, he kept his focus on the old man in front of him. Kept most of his attention on the man’s words; how they stumbled and crawled past cracked, bloodless lips. When Damen left the small room, Laurent felt the lack of his presence more than he heard Damen’s heavy retreating footsteps.

_He said it was his message to Kastor,_ his mind repeated, and Laurent had to bite back the bitter laugh building in his throat. No, it wasn’t. It was his uncle’s message to Damianos. Akielon riders, attacking an Akielon town while invoking Damianos’s name. This was, without a doubt, his uncle’s work.

He kept his eyes on the old man; wrapped his hand around the rough and bloodied fingers and squeezed them, reassuringly, as Paschal flitted into the outbuilding with several soldiers at his side. “I leave him in your capable hands,” Laurent said as he rose to his feet. He leaned in to murmur, “Make his passing comfortable.”

Paschal just nodded and knelt before the old man, nimble fingers quickly going to work in assessing the wound and determining the extent of the injury. No doubt, Paschal would come to the same conclusions as Laurent, and proceed as ordered. Satisfied, Laurent stepped out of the building and into the early morning light.

“Where is he?” he asked the one soldier who had remained behind.

The soldier gestured to some place outside of the scope of the village, and Laurent turned in that direction, squinting. He could follow and approach Damen alone -- provide him with some sort of reassurance; see whether Damen understood just whose work this attack had been. Or he could wait for Damen’s return.

Waiting never sat well with Laurent.

He took off in the direction the soldier had pointed him in, towards a patch of trees which would have been otherwise unworthy of his notice. The closer to it he became, the easier it was to notice Damen’s tracks; his footsteps were the only ones out this way. But he saw no sign of the other man, except --

A corpse, sprawled on the ground. A soldier, wearing Akielon armor. A soldier, his dark skin and hair and strong nose all pointing to Akielon lineage. A soldier, wearing an Akielon notched belt.

Laurent’s throat tightened, his hand on his sword. Makedon would be helping the other soldiers bury the dead -- Damen would have headed back towards the village, the flame of anger propelling him forward. If Laurent didn’t get there in time --

His feet were already ahead of his mind, bringing him back towards where their soldiers had begun to dig up the earth. His ears strained for the shouts of excitement; for Damen’s roughened voice.

Laurent had only a moment to take in the scene. Damen and Makedon, their swords drawn. . The gathering crowd of Makedon’s men surrounding them both. He had only a moment to spur himself forward and stop Damen from making a grievous error, one Damen would regret once he understood --

The first strike rang through the air, knocking Makedon off balance. Damen’s second strike came too fast, ripping the sword from Makedon’s two-handed grip with practiced, infuriating ease.

“ _Stop!_ ” Laurent shouted just as Damen reared himself back. Laurent grabbed Makedon and threw him to the scorched earth, inserting himself between Damen’s third strike and Makedon’s now prone body.

Metal grazed Laurent’s neck, the bite of it causing his hair to stand on end. Damen stared at him, his breathing ragged and his eyes wide. “Another inch and you rule two kingdoms,” Laurent murmured, trying, and failing, to put some levity into the situation at hand. He could feel the stares of his guard; the tension present in everyone surrounding them.

“Get out of my way, Laurent,” Damen growled in Veretian. His eyes narrowed to slits.

“Look around you,” Laurent ordered in response, glowering back at Damen. He didn’t dare flinch from the sword at his neck. “This attack is cold-blooded planning, designed to discredit you with your own people. Does Makedon think like that?”

He felt the shift in Damen’s grip. “He killed at Breteau. He wiped out a whole village at Breteau, just like this,” he said, unmistakable anger filtering through his voice. Anger, Laurent realized, that wasn’t entirely directed at Makedon, but at Laurent as well.

“That was retaliation for my uncle’s attack on Tarasis,” Laurent said, keeping his words even and firm. He still did not move away from Damen’s blade.

“You would defend him?” Damen all but laughed, his eyes wild with disbelief.

Laurent lifted his chin, just a little. If Damen had seen the same corpse he had, then he had seen the belt as well. Had made the same conclusions his uncle would want anyone to reach. “Anyone can notch a belt,” he said.

A second shift in Damen’s grip, this time tighter than before. The flames in Damen’s eyes didn’t die away; they only intensified. And for a brief, sick moment, Laurent thought that sword would swing inwards to slice his neck, but it didn’t. It swung away from him, its hilt slamming into the guard on Damen’s sheath.

“He just saved your life,” Damen spat at Makedon, reverting to his first tongue. The words soured his expression.

“I should give _him_ my thanks?” Makedon returned. He was still sprawled in the dirt behind Laurent.

“No,” Laurent said, switching to Akielon as well. “If it were left to me, you’d be dead. Your blunders play into my uncle’s hands. I saved your life because this alliance needs you, and I need this alliance to overthrow my uncle.”

Damen had strode away, then, leaving Laurent alone with the rest of their men. Laurent watched him only for a moment before turning to Makedon and narrowing his eyes at him. “Get back to work burying the dead,” he ordered.

This time, he didn’t follow. Instead, he stepped out of the makeshift battlefield, his legs no longer willing to hold him steady. He forced them to remain strong as he walked, his head still held high as he picked his way through the burial mounds. As he mounted his horse, he glanced back at Damen, who now stood with Nikandros, their eyes turning towards the south -- towards Sicyon.

So Damen did understand, after all.

***

Dawn had turned to dusk by the time they had returned. Damen’s foul mood still radiated off him, a tangible heat to anyone who passed him by. Servants and soldiers alike steered clear of him, parting away from him as he strode down the halls of Marlas.

Laurent told himself he wouldn’t follow. That he would let Damen work his anger out on his own, however he would prefer to do it. Except he knew precisely where Damen was heading; he knew the exact path he’d take to get there and what he would do, once he thought he had a true moment of privacy.

Laurent found himself, since he knew these things, approaching the indoor training arena without his own retinue. The arena was an echo of the one back home; the differences unnoticeable for most. Damen stood in the center with his back to the same door Laurent now leaned against. Damen was a sight to behold -- all rippling back and shoulder muscles as he brandished his sword and thrust it against empty air. Laurent could calculate the force and speed of his movements, they were so precise.

Laurent watched for quite some time, unable to clear his throat or announce his presence in any sort of way. He watched as Damen’s back glistened with sweat; how Damen then shed most of his clothes and used them as though they were only rags meant to mop at his face and neck.

And then it happened. Damen paused mid-stroke. From where Laurent stood, he couldn’t hear the other man’s breath, but he was uncomfortably aware of how his own stopped in his throat as Damen turned towards him.

And looked away without so much as sparing Laurent a word.

“If you’re _this_ angry,” Laurent heard himself saying before he could stop himself -- before he could acknowledge the frustration building within him, “you should fight a real opponent.”

“There’s no one --” Damen cut himself off, as though he had said too much.

“There’s me,” Laurent offered with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He unfolded his arms from overtop his chest and strode over to the sword wall, carefully selecting his blade. He tossed the sheath aside, it skidding across the sawdust.

“You want me to put your back in the dirt?” Damen asked. There was a heaviness to his tone; an angry and dangerous confidence weighing it down.

“You think you can?” Laurent quipped, letting a ghost of a smirk grace his lips.

Damen faced him fully, then. He studied Laurent, his jaw tight and his eyes narrowed. He hefted his sword in his hand, as if testing the weight of it once more, after having practiced with it for over an hour. Laurent stared right back at him, lifting his chin in an invitation.

_Come at me_ , he urged with his body language.

Damen did.

The first three strokes were easy; Laurent side-stepped, parried, and turned, so that his back was no longer to the door and instead to the rest of the training arena. With the open space behind him, he relaxed -- but only a little.

He needed to let Damen work it out. He would provide a taste of a fight; give just enough of his own energy to make Damen pant and then they could set the swords aside and talk, like civilized people. Damen threw himself into each thrust, exerting himself far more than Laurent, who’d tease and dip away, guiding them towards the other end of the arena all the while.

“Are we just going to go up and down?” Laurent asked, successfully dodging yet another blow from Damen’s sword. With his back once again to the expanse of the training arena, Laurent smirked. “I thought you’d push me at least a little.”

Laurent’s eyes widened as Damen came at him with unprecedented speed. He lifted his sword just in time to catch the force of Damen’s swing, the clash of metal on metal ringing in his ears. Laurent’s nimble fingers nearly lost their grip, pain ricocheting up Laurent’s arm to his shoulder. Balance lost, Laurent staggered away from Damen and tightened his grip on his weapon, determined not to lose it so quickly.

“You mean like that?” Damen returned, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Laurent took another step back and righted himself, narrowing his eyes at Damen. Damen stood up straighter and held his sword in front of him. “I thought I’d let you go up and down a few times before I take you,” Damen continued, his words lacking warmth. 

“I thought you were down here _because_ you couldn’t take me?” Laurent grit out. Damen glowered at him, the only warning Laurent had before the next onslaught. Despite Damen’s overwhelming strength, Laurent broke through Damen’s guard. It was only by sheer force that Damen pushed Laurent away from him.

“You _are_ good,” Damen said, squaring himself off before Laurent. The hint of a smile on his lips grew as Laurent placed both hands on the hilt of his sword.

Laurent’s right shoulder ached as Laurent tensed and braced himself for another blow. It was a weakness -- a weakness Damen obviously intended to exploit. More strikes came; Laurent evaded them when he could, blocked them when he couldn’t, and swung when the opportunity arose. He stayed light on his feet, turned with sharp movements, used his smaller size to his advantage -- what little of one he had.

Damen would not relent. And when he finally did, it came not a moment too soon. Laurent felt the ache in his wrist; the strain in his shoulder. Sweat dripped down thick lashes, stinging his eyes as Laurent watched Damen circle him like an animal waiting to pounce.

“How’s your shoulder?” Damen asked just as Laurent adjusted his grip.

“My shoulder and I,” Laurent said, drawing himself to his full height, “are waiting to be shown a real fight.” He forced a cocky smile across his lips.

They clashed again, Laurent recalling lessons Auguste had given him when he was just a boy. He recalled the footwork his brother had become so well-known for. He found himself using it now -- but the one thing Auguste had that Laurent didn’t was pure strength. His brother had been better built for this; had spent more time training and honing his skills. And Laurent --

Well, after Auguste’s death, he had been mostly self-taught. Practicing whenever he could, learning from others, observing their styles and developing one of his own. Learning how to feint; how to draw his opponent in and --

Damen knocked Laurent’s weapon from his hands just before the hilt of Damen’s sword collided with Laurent’s stomach. A rough hand pushed him further off balance, and Laurent found himself flat in the dirt, the air forced from his lungs.

“You can’t beat me in a real fight,” Damen said, his sword at Laurent’s neck for the second time that day.

Laurent struggled for breath, his eyes darting from Damen’s face to his lost weapon, which was just a foot or so too far to the right. The edge of Damen’s sword moved from Laurent’s throat to his stomach. “Yield,” he ordered.

Fingers scrabbled at the dirt and flung a handful upward into Damen’s eyes. The fraction of an inch shift of Damen’s blade was all the space Laurent needed to scramble to his feet, scoop up his sword, and set his stance.

“You fight with the tactics of a coward.” Damen said, unamused, as he wiped the sawdust out of his eyes. He frowned at Laurent.

“I fight to win,” Laurent growled, readying himself.

“Not well enough for _that_.”

Laurent glared at Damen, a guttural noise building in his throat as he flung himself forward, swinging his sword with all of his might. Damen met his strike, but lost ground, one leg thrust back for leverage against Laurent’s weight. In a match of pure strength Laurent could never win, but --

This man had killed his brother. This man had slept with Laurent anyway, without ever explaining to Laurent who he was, and if he hadn’t already known --

He needed his mind, not strength. He could out-step Damen. He could use the terrain to his advantage. He could even the playing field.

And he did. He cut a shelf loose from the ring, kicked it into Damen’s way. Created an obstacle course with armour; swung when Damen’s concentration broke. Auguste had fought Damen with honor; with an order for his men to hold back, and Laurent --

Laurent couldn’t give a damn if this was fair or not. It had never been fair. It had _never_ been fucking fair, when his uncle dumped Damianos, Prince Killer, into his hands and ordered him to play nice -- to keep the slave alive. He'd squandered his only chance to see Damianos die at Arles, when he’d withheld the whip too soon.. 

Damen’s sword buried itself inside a post, and Laurent saw his opportunity. He could drive his blade in, let Damen bleed out right here in Marlas, just like Auguste had done years ago, and --

Damen ducked away from Laurent’s assault, abandoning his blade momentarily. Laurent bent, swiping a knife from the dirt and throwing it, hard, at Damen’s throat. In the second Laurent had taken to aim, Damen tugged his weapon free. Damen knocked Laurent’s dagger out of the way and the determination on Damen’s face -- the lack of exhaustion present in it -- was the only thing Laurent saw as he anticipated Damen’s next blow.

Steel met steel, the sound grating in Laurent’s ears. Damen’s swing carried his full weight, and Laurent’s right arm bore the brunt of it. His sword fell from his hands. Laurent’s back slammed against wood; his teeth clacked together. Damen’s arm jammed up against his throat, robbing his ability to take in any additional air, and --

His fingers tightened blindly around the hilt of a knife. If he could just --

“ _No you don’t_ ,” Damen hissed, snatching Laurent’s wrist like he had that night in the baths. He forced Laurent’s arm back; knocked his hand against the paneled wall until Laurent’s grip loosened and the knife fell to the ground, out of reach.

Laurent couldn’t breathe. Damen, too close, his body hovering inches away from Laurent’s, pinning him in place. He needed to get free. Needed to get revenge on the man that had ruined everything for him. _Needed_ to --

He struggled and thrashed, Damen’s hold too tight and too perfect for Laurent to break. But with one calculated, well-timed swing, Laurent’s fist connected with Damen’s throat, choking him -- if only for a moment -- but space was given. Enough space for Laurent to force his knee up and slam it between Damen’s legs.

Damen didn’t fall. To Laurent’s horror, Damen’s grip tightened,his dark eyes wild and bright. With a growl low in his throat, Damen wrenched Laurent away from the wall and threw him, hard, against the sawdust, forcing Laurent’s breath from his lungs once again.

Laurent could have laughed as his dazed fingers closed around yet another knife -- as he rose, aching and exhausted, from the ground. He narrowed his eyes at Damen. Hatred consumed him in a way it hadn’t in weeks, his whole body coiling with the force of it and gearing to strike.

“That’s _enough_!” Damen growled. His knee drove itself into Laurent’s stomach, his hands infuriatingly on Laurent once again and pushing him back down into the dirt. Laurent dropped the knife once more as his wrist slammed against the ground, Damen’s full weight making it impossible for him to move.

Laurent struggled against Damen anyway, his breath uneven and harsh, tears stinging at his eyes. He bit back a cry, the noise strangling itself in his throat before his whole body eventually stilled.

“ _Say it_ ,” Damen ordered, the words hot against Laurent’s face.

“I _yield_ ,” Laurent forced through clenched teeth, his eyes turned away from Damen’s. He would never yield. He could still fight. He could still --

“I want you to know,” Damen said, with an odd shift to his voice Laurent couldn’t place, “that I could have done this any. time. when I was a slave.”

Laurent’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest, his stomach threatening to escape through his throat. “ _Get off me_.”

Damen obeyed. His solid form no longer loomed over Laurent; his fingers were no longer clasped around Laurent’s wrist. Laurent closed his eyes and willed the tears away, frustration hot on his face. He could feel Damen’s eyes on him as he pushed himself to his feet, using the now notched post for support.

“You want me to say it?” he spat out, keeping his back to Damen. “That I never could have beaten you?” He sniffed and hung his head. “I never could have beaten you.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Damen said, his words adding weight to Laurent’s already heavy shoulders. “You’re not good enough. You would have come for revenge, and I would have killed you. That’s how it would have been between us.” He paused, and Laurent glared at Damen over his shoulder. “Is that what you would have wanted?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Laurent hissed, tears threatening to spill over. He turned to Damen. “He was everything I had.”

Neither one of them said anything, their eyes locked in an uncomfortable battle before Laurent threaded his fingers through his hair and looked away, clutching at his head. He forced himself to swallow his tears; to keep his breathing steady. Damen wouldn’t have wanted that fate. And Laurent --

“I know,” he whispered, his cheeks growing damp with the admission, “that I was never good enough.”

He wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t defeat Damen. He couldn’t defeat his uncle. He would never be King -- this whole endeavour was for naught, and --

“Neither was your brother,” Damen said.

Laurent almost laughed. “You’re wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “He was --”

“What?” Damen said, frowning.

“ _Better_ \-- than I am. He would have --”

Laurent snapped his mouth shut, a helpless noise bubbling up to his lips. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to steady his voice. “Stopped you,” he finished, the words sounding ludicrous, even to his own ears.

It was an age before he opened his eyes again. He heard the shuffle of Damen’s feet against the dirt. When he opened them, Damen was uncomfortably close once again, a knife glinting in the light of the arena. A knife Laurent found himself holding, Damen’s fingers bracing his wrist as the blade threatened to bite into Damen’s abdomen. 

“Stop me,” Damen breathed as their gazes met.

Laurent’s stomach turned at the thought and climbed into his throat. His grip tightened on the knife, threatening to plunge it into the muscle. Except Laurent couldn’t pull his eyes away from Damen’s; he could no longer let that faint, thin control snap as it had, just moments ago, when they were fighting.

“I know what that feels like,” Damen said, his expression softening for the first time that evening. That ridiculous expression of understanding and something else -- something Laurent hadn’t seen since Auguste. There was truth in it -- an honesty Laurent hardly saw in anyone else..

“You’re unarmed,” Laurent said, his voice barely louder than a whisper and cracking under the weight of Damen’s stare. He felt small; he was acutely aware of Damen’s hand on his wrist; how the knife felt in his hands. His stomach twisted again and the blade fell to the dirt.

Damen tried to move away, but Laurent grasped him, held him in place with what little strength he had left. “Laurent --”

“I miss you,” the admission came, unbidden, soft and fragile in the air. Laurent felt his cheeks color. “I miss our conversations. I miss --”

Damen closed the distance between them, his earlier anger forgotten as he pushed Laurent up against the post, one hand on Laurent’s jaw and tilting his head back while the other slid up the length of Laurent’s arm. He felt the warmth of Damen’s breath just before their lips met in a desperate kiss. Laurent’s body tensed at the intimate touch.

“I miss you, too,” Damen whispered as he pulled away. For once, Laurent saw him wage a battle within himself, weighing his words carefully, as though if he said the wrong thing, it would ruin the moment.

And perhaps it would. After all, Laurent had grabbed him just as he had started to pull away. If he hadn’t --

Embers smoldered in his belly, his mind catching up with what was transpiring between them. No. He had no love for the Akielon brute. For the man who murdered his brother. He didn’t need to pretend anymore. Didn’t need to force a love that wasn’t there.

Except those embers died out as Damen said, “I hate being angry with you. I despise this -- the act we put on in front of our men. Speak honestly with me, so perhaps we can settle things.”

His hand was still pressed against Laurent's cheek, the other trailing lightly back down Laurent's arm and resting on his hip. Laurent turned his head away from Damen. "There is nothing for us to settle," he said, doing his best to keep his expression neutral. “You killed my brother. I fucked you anyway, knowing that. We are now united against my uncle in order to gain back what is rightfully ours. Nothing more.”

Damen frowned. “So I have been nothing more than just another piece in your game,” he said, letting his hand fall away from Laurent’s face. He shook his head and turned away from Laurent. “Is that what you would prefer me to believe?”

“Yes.”

He said it, the word coming unbidden from his lips. It _was_ how he would prefer it. Damen, his pawn against his uncle -- a pawn his uncle had, unwittingly, given him. Damen and his ability to draw others to him, charismatic in a way Laurent would never quite manage.

Laurent had never stood a chance against him.

The space between them grew. A muscle in Damen’s jaw tightened, his eyes taking on that insufferable hardness once again.

“Is that truly how you view me?” he asked, his mouth set in a thin line. He gestured to himself. “As a weapon?”

Laurent blinked up at him and felt a slight, wry smile tug on his lips. He gestured to Damen’s broad form; his well-muscled body. “You are quite good with one, as you’ve just proven to me,” he quipped. “You’ve also saved me, and you have killed for me. You are starting to truly understand what it’s like, to do battle with my uncle. So yes, I see you as an asset, and perhaps as a weapon. I cannot get my throne back, if I do not have you.”

They were not the words Laurent had wanted to say. But they were the words that would, perhaps, get Damen to continue to step away from him. Words that would make Laurent unworthy of Damianos’s courtship. Words that --

Seemed to do absolutely _nothing_. Damen just studied Laurent, those dark eyes of his glittering with the faintest hints of mirth. He then shook his head and stepped away from Laurent. “I ask for you to speak the truth,” he murmured, bending to collect his forgotten sword. As he sheathed it, he turned to Laurent once more. “Are you afraid someone else might hear if you so much as dare speak honestly with me?”

“My words are not a lie,” Laurent said, frowning. He took one step towards Damen and stopped, noticing the way Damen’s body tensed with his movement.

“No,” Damen said after a moment, his tone light as he began to pick up the discarded armor in an effort to right the damage the both of them had done. “They are not. But nothing is ever so simple with you. There’s hidden meanings; words you haven’t said. Words you aren’t going to say -- at least, not to me. Not as I am now.” He paused and turned to Laurent, his expression unreadable for the first time that evening. “You’ve always known who I was, but I was not to be myself with you. Now that I can be, everything has changed.”

“You were never a slave,” Laurent said, doing his best to keep his expression and tone neutral. “You were born to rule, and all it takes is one look at you to know that I speak the truth. My uncle knows you are a threat; he knows that you are of use to me, and he will continue to tarnish your name just as he has done with mine. That is what this alliance means for you.”

Damen let out a quiet, half-hearted chuckle, approaching Laurent once more. He stopped, just a foot of space between them. “I hadn’t known what it meant to fight against your uncle until today,” he said. “Makedon needn’t thank you, but I do. If you hadn’t stopped me...”

“As I said earlier, this alliance needs him alive and well,” Laurent said, lifting his chin just slightly. “I wasn’t lying when I told him I would have him killed myself, if it weren’t for this fact.”

Damen nodded. “Our army will be cut in half, if Makedon decides to defect,” he said.

“I am aware,” Laurent murmured in response. “It is too late now to take back your actions; we can only wait and see how he proceeds in the next few days.”

Sighing, Damen nodded again. He dropped his eyes to the sawdust underneath his feet, a slight frown tugging on his lips. “I should have known it was your uncle’s work from the start,” he admitted. He looked up, his eyes squinting into the air. “Even from a distance, he knows just which weaknesses to exploit…”

"He is after both of our kingdoms," Laurent said with a shrug, turning his head to the side. "He had no reason to target you until you made it clear whose side you were on."

Damen shook his head. “He knew whose side I belonged when he sent those three men into your rooms, that night,” he said, shifting even closer to Laurent. He reached out, placing a light hand on Laurent’s shoulder, his thumb pressing into sensitive flesh. “I shouldn’t have fought with you.”

“You were angry,” Laurent said, gently moving Damen’s hand away from his shoulder. The ache of their actions started to register, the adrenaline now wearing off. “Perhaps if I thought you could be reasoned with, we could have spoken instead of sparred.”

“I don’t think I was the only one who was angry,” Damen murmured, meeting Laurent’s eyes. A serious expression overtook his features as he looked out over the training arena; at the chaos the two of them had created, together. He drew in a breath, his gaze locking into Laurent’s once again. “I killed your brother.”

The words hung in the air, heavy between the two of them. Laurent could see the sorrow in Damen’s eyes and felt his own sting with another round of unshed tears. “You did,” he managed, his voice thankfully devoid of the emotion he felt.

“He fought well --”

“Don’t,” Laurent ordered, lifting a trembling hand to his face. He pushed all too long hair out of his eyes and resisted the urge to narrow them at Damen. “I saw how he fought.” The scant inches between them disappeared as Laurent stood so close to Damen they were not quite touching. Those same unsteady fingers reached for Damen’s bare shoulder and drifted along the scar present there, where Auguste had almost managed to run him through.

“He was better,” he repeated, his voice thick this time. He cleared his throat and stepped away from Damen. “Good night, Damianos,” he said. 

He didn’t look back as he said it.


End file.
